All emotions and preconceived notions aside, it was just the damned size of the thing that he couldn’t handle. Not that the affair itself was big—it was a pretty small, simple thing, when it came down to it—the questions it raised shot out of Drew’s mind at the rate that Paxil hurled criticisms. When? Where? How did it start? And how long had it been going on? were the first questions to pop up whenever he put his mind to the topic, which was all the time lately. And then there were the tentacles that shot out from the affair itself, the possible effects and impacts that it might have on the people Drew was closest to—as well as any number of people beyond that immediate circle. Drew scribbled at the edge of his desk with a pen, taking perverse pleasure in the black ink that was rapidly staining the light wooden surface.
And what about Phoebe? Did Phoebe know, Drew wondered as his pen scratched across the desk. Or was she just as clueless as he had been, thinking that her parents were, well, her parents—instead of the pair of strangers that Drew had discovered his own to be. Strangers with ideas and ethics and emotions and fuck buddies that were apparently more important than that wonderful thing they used to have, the thing that most people call family—the thing that Drew now referred to as a sorry lie.
As messy images of doll mutilation scrolled across the screen, Drew released the pen and picked up his iPhone, surreptitiously pulling up MySpace and clicking on Phoebe’s page. Phoebe grinned out at him from her profile pic, which featured a softly smiling Pheebs looking out from a pair of silver D&G shades that were so enormous, they made her head look about the size of a peanut. Before he could think too much about it, Drew clicked on the “messaging” icon and began hitting the keys with practiced fingers, worried that if he slowed down for even a moment to think about what exactly he was really doing, that he’d end up just bagging the whole thing altogether.
Hey Pheebs,
I know this is kind of random, but can we meet up later and talk?
Peace Out,
—DVA
candy stripping
“Well, the situation’s not entirely hopeless—yet.” Andrea Cavalli flipped through Madison’s transcripts, the pages thwap ping against one another in rapid succession as she crossed her legs and threw the thick folder dramatically down onto the Macallisters’ ornate, gilded coffee table with the curved legs that made Phoebe feel like she was trapped in some awful, dusty museum surrounded by piles of hulking gold furniture with too many legs and the instant vertigo of crazily dipping crystal chandeliers. Come to think of it, Phoebe realized with a small smile as she looked around the cavernous living room, her random description fit the over-the-top opulence of the Macallisters’ penthouse apartment to a T...
“But you girls need to get your act together—and quick.” Andrea frowned, her dark, bluntly cut chin-length bob swinging in the fading light coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the tiny seed pearls adorning the neckline of her ivory cashmere Chanel sweater glinting in the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. “Because let me tell you—this lack of after-school commitments just isn’t going to cut it at all.”
Phoebe watched as Andrea blinked her spiky black lashes together rapidly and pursed her cranberry-colored, lightly glossed lips. Despite growing up somewhere in Queens, Andrea Cavalli had made a name for herself as first the admissions director at Princeton, and now as a private college admissions counselor to Manhattan’s elite. Andrea was known for her scrupulous and creative methods in the college race, and boasted the highest placement rate at Ivies than any other professional college admissions counselor in the New York area, charging upwards of thirty thousand dollars for her services—which, to Phoebe’s absolute dismay, often included preschool breakfast meetings and endless amounts of horrible Bring It On-esque cheerleader-type e-mails. Phoebe wasn’t sure what was worse. Now that she and Jared were officially out in the open, all Phoebe really wanted to do was flirt with him on Facebook, leaving sexy posts on his all-too-crowded wall, and make out with him all night long. If she’d been seriously smitten before, she was majorly in lust now.
Phoebe glanced over at Madison, who was sitting sulkily at the other end of the couch, her arms crossed over her chest defiantly, and rolled her eyes sympathetically. Mad returned the look with a gaze that could stop a clock dead, rolling her green eyes so far up in her head that, for a minute, all Phoebe saw was the glaring whites of her friend’s eyeballs. Kill me, Madison mouthed, her full lips perfectly reddened with YSL’s Ruby Fix lip glaze.
Andrea leaned forward in her chair, shaking her hair from her face with an impatient toss of her head. “I’m going to lay my cards on the table—with no bullshit.” Phoebe looked over at Mad, her jaw dropping slightly. “You girls can forget about getting into an Ivy unless you’re willing to devote yourselves twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to making your educational profiles exceedingly more viable.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?” Mad snapped, crossing her toothpick-thin legs wrapped in ivory cashmere thigh-highs that peeked out from the hem of her minuscule black Dior skirt.
“By raising the level of your after-school commitments, for one,” Andrea said with a tight smile that didn’t quite hide her annoyance. She picked up both Madison’s and Phoebe’s academic folders and held them in one hand. “I mean, what do you girls do after school besides drink lattes and shop Fifth Avenue?”
There was a stunned moment of silence where Phoebe could almost hear the crickets in Central Park chirping busily. Phoebe looked over at Madison, who returned her gaze with a murderous look that positively screamed, Who does this bitch think she is? Oh, boy. Phoebe pushed her dark hair from her face and waited for the inevitable shit storm that was surely on its way via Madison’s barbed tongue. But before Mad could open her mouth, Andrea rushed on, throwing the folders back onto the table with a decisive flick of her wrist.
“But that’s all a thing of the past,” Andrea said, the tone of her voice suggesting that she was really getting down to business. “I’ve arranged for you girls to spend two afternoons a week volunteering at Lenox Hill Hospital as candy stripers.”
Phoebe’s eyes glazed over as Madison made a sound that was somewhere between a gurgle and a scream. Bedpans and sick people? This woman had to be kidding. So. Not. Sexy. There was no way she was spending her afternoons in some smelly hospital, plumping pillows and waiting on old fogies when she could be rolling around in a king-sized bed with Jared. After all, she had her priorities to think about . . . and making out with her hot boyfriend was definitely at the top of the list.
And candy striping? Please. The only stripping she was going to be doing would be taking place in the privacy of her own bedroom. Well, Phoebe thought with a sigh that came from somewhere so deep in her chest that it felt like she was exhaling her very soul, maybe the outfits will at least be cute. Phoebe’s brain flooded with images of Jared supine in bed, his bare, tawny skin in high relief against the white sheets. Of course, she’d be wearing the most adorable white nurse’s uniform with a hem that stopped at her thighs as she bent over and wiped the sweat from his brow, the muscles in his biceps flexing as he pulled her to him and . . .
Just as Madison began babbling strenuously in protest and Phoebe became lost in her Florence Nightingale/Playboy Channel daydreams, Phoebe’s phone began buzzing frantically from within the confines of her crimson Kate Spade purse. Ever since she’d picked up a new BlackBerry Storm a few days ago, the damn thing buzzed and alerted her practically every five minutes. Phoebe scrolled through her messages, then logged on to MySpace, her fingers screeching to a halt as she saw Drew’s message. Phoebe frowned, her usually placid brow creasing like a linen dress on a humid day. It wasn’t like she and Drew were exactly mortal enemies or anything, but it wasn’t like they hung out every day outside of school either—or had anything in common besides the fact that their parents were currently fucking each other’s brains out.
Wait . . . did Drew know?
Phoebe’s mouth dropped open as s
he pondered the idea. She hadn’t thought about it before, but now that he’d mes saged her out of the blue, it made total sense. Maybe they should get together and talk this thing out. Actually, it might actually be nice to talk to someone who really understood what she was going through for a change. Whenever she tried to talk to Jared about how screwed up her family was, or about how lonely and lost she’d been feeling since her dad moved out, his blue eyes usually glazed over halfway through the conversation, which inevitably concluded with Jared trying to unhook her bra, unlace her boots, or distract her with some other dumbass, completely exasperating but hot, boy-type nonsense . . .
Phoebe’s dark eyes widened as she read, thankful that Madison was now thoroughly engrossed with attempting to verbally eviscerate Andrea. If Phoebe was going to make this work, she was going to have to reply as quickly as she could before Madison got the heads-up, got interested, and grabbed the phone from her hands the way she usually did when whoever was around wasn’t paying attention to her.
“And my Dior,” Madison was practically yelling at Andrea, “it might pick up a staph infection. I mean, the fabric is so delicate that it might as well be human skin!”
Phoebe watched, half-amused as Andrea’s eyes narrowed to slits and her inner Queens girl threatened to pounce. Phoebe was actually so engrossed in the drama unfolding—formidable competition that Andrea was turning out to be—that she almost forgot about the whole text messaging thing. But as Madison continued to yell, promising that any readily communicable diseases she might pick up if forced into candy striping would be coughed and sneezed continually in Andrea’s direction until she undoubtedly became sick herself, Phoebe remembered Drew’s plea, and bent her head over her phone. Her fingers deliberately pressed against the touch screen, realizing there was no way Mad could ever find out without consequences so severe that Phoebe might end up in the hospital herself. Or, she could always claim amnesia . . .
Phoebe smiled as she pressed SEND with the tip of her fingernail, and switched her phone to silent.
Hey, D.
Random is right. Hook up with me at UG at 7 if you want to talk . . .
L8tr,
P.
i’m dreaming of a green christmas . . .
“Phyllis, darling!” Melissa Von Norton strode into the St. Johns’ living room as if she owned the place, the ice-pick heels on her chocolate brown, patent leather Manolo pumps noiseless on the deep pile of crimson-and-beige Oriental rugs that were strewn across the glossy wood floors, her camel colored shearling coat trailing behind her like an expensive, supple flag. “So lovely to see you again!” Melissa exclaimed, her low, mellifluous voice full of warmth as she pulled off her gold Michael Kors sunglasses and embraced Sophie’s mother, who stood there stiffly, her hands coming to rest loosely on Melissa’s back as if she was patting a delicate baby bird—not hugging one of the biggest movie stars on the entire planet.
“You,” Melissa went on as soon as they’d pulled back from one another, pointing one beige nail at Phyllis’s chest, “are looking positively stunning.” Melissa cocked her head to the side and flashed her trademark mega-watt smile that earned her upward of twenty million a film, her slightly almond-shaped blue eyes traveling down to take in Phyllis St. John’s lithe figure beneath a discreetly patterned gray-and-white Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. “Pilates?” she inquired, raising one delicately arched blond brow.
Phyllis blushed with pleasure, her sculpted cheekbones flushing in a way that made her suddenly appear much younger than her chronological age of forty. “Stripper Aerobics, actually,” she said almost apologetically, taking Melissa by the arm and leading her over to the deep brown leather sofa.
“Wow,” Melissa said, impressed, as she pulled off her coat to reveal a bronze silk shirt tucked into a pair of dark-washed True Religion jeans with yellow stitching, a Chanel belt cinching her tiny waist with a web of fine gold interlocking double C’s. “Well, I’ve got to tell you, Phyllis—it looks like it’s definitely working,” she purred, laughing softly as she pushed her honey-colored mane back from her pale skin, which shone like it was exfoliated with diamonds on an hourly basis.
Sophie sank down into an overstuffed armchair grumpily, crossing her bare legs, which peeked out from a pair of magenta Juicy Couture shorts, and began obsessively pulling at the strings of her matching hoodie, wondering if anyone was going to even acknowledge her existence, much less perform routine social niceties like saying hello. Just as she was contemplating stomping off to her room and blasting Jay-Z until the chandeliers shook, Melissa’s bottle-green eyes caught her own and held them, her lips curving softly into a smile. And all at once what Sophie found herself wanting more than anything in the world was to get to know this woman who had given birth to her, to find out who she really was, to be, in some way, a real part of her life. The feeling swelled up in her chest like a balloon full of hot air, and before she could help herself she was grinning back at her mother, her annoyance both forgiven and forgotten.
“Sophie, love,” Melissa said, her blue, expertly lined eyes roaming over her daughter’s face like she was trying to commit it to memory. Sophie couldn’t help noticing that as soon as the word love left her mother’s lips Phyllis flinched slightly in shock, her body recoiling from the word as if it were poison. “I wanted to speak with your . . . mother about what we discussed yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Phyllis wondered aloud, an edge of panic creeping into her usually carefully modulated voice. “When did you . . .” Phyllis began as she looked from Sophie back to Melissa, confusion spreading thickly across her face like a heaping spatula of Crème de la Mer. Sophie felt the hairs on her arms begin to stand at attention apprehensively as her mother’s voice trailed off into nothingness.
“I surprised Sophie before school,” Melissa said gaily, waving her hand languidly in the air as if it were no big deal. “And I asked if she might be willing to spend Christmas with me in Los Angeles.”
There was a long silence. Sophie could hear the antique Swiss clock ticking on the end table and the sound her breath made as it moved raggedly in her chest as she watched emotions shift and move across Phyllis’s face like an incoming monsoon.
“Christmas is . . . a very important holiday in our household,” Phyllis said, clearly struggling to retain her composure, and trying her best to choose her words carefully. “A family holiday,” she finished decisively. Now it was Melissa’s turn to flinch. Her face paled noticeably, the blood rushing away from her features. Sophie shifted uncomfortably on her chair, sticking her hands underneath the sleeves of her hoodie and running her fingers over her scars for reassurance. Watching this scene play out between her two mommies was beginning to resemble absolute torture. Until things really got ironed out, all this mother/daughter stuff was undoubtedly just going to be uncomfortable—full stop.
“I realize that,” Melissa said slowly, carefully. “And my intention isn’t to take Sophie away from you during the holidays. I thought we might be able to come to some sort of compromise.” Melissa took a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve missed sixteen Christmases with Sophie, and I’d absolutely hate to miss another.”
“I see,” Phyllis said icily, looking down at her knees covered in sheer black stockings. Sophie couldn’t help but notice the strained expression on her mother’s face, the way her usually relaxed, lightly bronzed figure was pulled taut and tight, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The currents of jealously between the two women felt like a thick, noxious smog that was almost stifling in its intensity. “Well, what did you have in mind?” Phyllis asked, her voice strained.
“I was thinking that Sophie could fly out late on Christmas Day,” Melissa said evenly. “That way she could be with her . . .” Melissa said, clearly struggling for the right words, and trying desperately not to offend Phyllis in the arduous process, “well, you, on Christmas Eve—and most of Christmas Day. I was hoping she could stay with me for two weeks, but, of course, that’s entirely your
decision.”
“Two weeks is out of the question,” Phyllis said crisply. “We’re taking our annual holiday trip to Aspen in January and I wouldn’t want Sophie to miss it.”
“Then how about a week?” Sophie asked tentatively, feeling like if she didn’t manage to break into the conversation it was more than a distinct possibility she might scream—or hurl herself through the glass coffee table in sheer frustration. Sophie watched as Phyllis turned the idea around in her head, searching for a reason to say no. Just watching the obvious turmoil plastered all over the face of the woman who’d raised her made Sophie feel like she was about to lose it herself. She was definitely caught in the middle—and she had the sneaking suspicion that, no matter which way things went today, it wouldn’t be the last time. There had to be something she could do or say to make this whole idea easier on everyone.
“Mom,” she said softly, holding Phyllis’s dark eyes with her own. “You’ve had me every Christmas for the last sixteen years. Melissa just wants to get to know me a little. You’re not going to lose me or anything—I promise.”
“Exactly,” Melissa said, chiming in, clearly relieved as she placed one hand on Phyllis’s arm and patted her softly, like an infant she was trying to placate. “Sophie is your daughter. I’d just like to spend a little time with her.”
Elite 03 Simply Irresistible Page 11
